qui nos custodirent custodum
by thebookhobbit
Summary: Commander Sam Vimes has just lost his job for interfering with his local despotic ruler's nefarious plans too much. Vimes never been anything but a policeman, and is therefore at something of a loss until he's summoned by Havelock Vetinari, retired assassin and known gentleman of mystery. He has has plans for Vimes. Plans that involve...spandex. Superhero AU. Part of Superdisc!


My utmost thanks to theturtlemoves from tumblr for being kind enough to beta this for me. It would not have been half as good without the excellent tips and suggestions.

I am also entire open to corrections on the title. It's supposed to mean "we who guard the guardsmen" as in "quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" but as I don't speak Latin I had to resort to online translators. My problem is I have a crippling weakness for pretentious Latin fanfic titles but no ability to translate them myself. See the end of the work for some more thanks and a little bit about how all this happened.

* * *

This was very possibly the worst day thus far of Samuel Vimes' life.

And that was saying something. Vimes' work as a police officer under Snapcase's authority had lead him to experience many days that would definitely be the worst in any other life. He'd been thrown into rivers, beaten up, seen good men killed. But even those rather unpleasant events had happened in the process of protecting the city.

And now he couldn't even do that anymore.

He curled his lip, pausing momentarily in the act of packing his things to remember Quirke's horrible smug face. Dismissed personally by his successor. Bastard.

"Of course you're a good officer, and we appreciate your service, but perhaps it's time for you to find some more...suitable work," he'd drawled, waving a hand dismissively. Read: "You have interfered one too many times with The Plan and you need to be gone. Be glad we didn't kill you."

Not that this was any guarantee he'd remain alive. He might well be killed yet, and if some backally thug didn't do the job for ten dollars, starvation might work just as well. Vimes was on the wrong side of forty, no college degree, no skills except those you naturally acquired as a policeman in the current regime, i.e., fighting dirty and knowing when to call for reinforcements. Not what you'd call marketable job skills. Perhaps he could get work as a guard somewhere, but it seemed unlikely now that Snapcase had blacklisted him. He certainly didn't have enough connections to draw on; none, in fact, outside "the Watch", as it was informally known.

Walking home with all his things in a box, he evaluated his life thus far. Born on the wrong side of the tracks, raised by a single mother who had managed to instill in him a sense of justice which was even still getting him into trouble. Dropped out of high school to work, even though she hadn't approved, because they'd needed it. Somehow he'd gotten a job in the Watch. To the Vimes-of-then, young and innocent and believing Snapecase _cared_ about the people of the city, the job had seemed a privilege.

Ha.

The trouble was, the mindset stuck. At his core, Vimes was a policeman, and he would always be a policeman. There was simply no other way around it. Which meant his future job prospects were extremely limited.

Except...

He could always leave Ankh-Morpork.

This was a largely theoretically possibility, though. The city was as ingrained in him as his copper habits – no, more so, he'd only been a copper for twenty years or so, whereas he'd lived in Ankh-Morpork his entire life. Ankh-Morpork _was_ his entire life, more than any job or house or woman could be. He was practically married. Depressing, when you thought of it.

He arrived at his apartment, unlocked the door, went inside and dropped his box of things unceremoniously on the table. The apartment was tiny, shabby little place on the wrong side of the tracks with a narrow staircase and peeling paint, but it was home. Well, no it wasn't, his office was home. This was a place to sleep when he needed a bed and to eat when he couldn't be bothered about going out.

Okay, so no leaving Ankh-Morpork. Which left – what? Ask around, see if he could get work as a guard, or else set up as a private detective? Vimes hated private detectives. In stories, they always went around saying stupid things about mud splashes and footprints, gross oversimplifications of how real life worked. Besides, they were _unofficial_, and that was a dangerous place to be.

Then again...in a normal city with a normal justice system that actually functioned, yes. But perhaps under Snapecase, unofficial was what you had to be.

The problem was drawing the line. How could you be sure – ?

There was a knock at the door. Vimes glared at it, then sighed and opened it up to find two enormously huge men waiting for him.

This was not good. Vimes' brain went into overdrive. No weapon on him and no way he could outfight these two goons, although he could probably outrun them; they weren't likely to be too fast. The worst they could do was kill him, and that was probably better than their original plan, i.e. – taking him to Snapecase to be tortured and disposed of. He'd just zeroed in on the gap between them when one of them spoke.

"Lord Vetinari will see you now."

"Huh?" said Vimes. It wasn't very impressive, but he was very impressed. Not too many people managed to get the drop on him like this.

"Lord Vetinari will see you now," repeated the thug. It seemed to be his only line.

"I didn't know I wanted to see Lord Vetinari." Vimes spoke more as a gesture than anything; the Patrician, as Vetinari was notoriously called, was known to be a reasonable man. An incredibly pragmatic one, admittedly, but if Snapecase wanted Vimes he could have gotten him under his own authority. Sending Vetinari's men to do his dirty work was ridiculous.

"Lots of people wanna see Lord Vetinari and don't know it," rumbled the other man. Vimes started. He hadn't expected an answer to his complaint. But he shrugged. "All right," he said, holding out his hands.

The two thugs looked at the hands.

"What's dat for?" demanded one.

"Aren't you gonna cuff me?"

"Don't got orders to do dat. You gotta go down and get in da car." The speaking goon jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. Vimes shrugged again, stepped out onto the rickety staircase, and sure enough, a long black car was idling at the curb. It was the kind of car that was imminently suitable for idling, although you expected it to do the idling was outside a posh club, whence mysterious strangers dressed in crisp black suits issued forth. In Vimes' side of town it looked out of place and slightly sinister.

Nevertheless, he got in the car. He probably could have run away, but Vetinari was supposed to have spies everywhere. Better to get it over with rather than have to be hunted down like a dog. Hah, no, that would happen soon enough, if Snapecase caught wind of this. So, better to cooperate, but don't look like you're trying to – he kept his arms down and together as if handcuffed and cast a surly look out at the world every so often. This was not a strain.

The ride was short, considering the distance between Vetinari's neighborhood and Vimes'. The two goons rode up front, seats stretched so far back Vimes had to stretch lengthwise, his legs along the seat. It was also quiet; apparently, the goons had exhausted their supply of conversation. Vimes essay a couple of attempts at conversation along the lines of "Why does the Patrician want to see me?" but got no queries, so he decided to continue his glaring efforts, just for practice. He scowled furiously out the window at the increasingly-large houses, occasionally twiddling his thumbs for something else to do.

The Patrician lived in an old house on the nice side of town, with all the other blokes who went by titles like "Lord" and "Sir" and "Fancypants McMonocle" they had no technical right to. Ankh-Morpork didn't have a king, although Snapecase acted the part. Historically, which was to say theoretically, it was a principality. Nowadays the top boss-man just called himself Lord such-and-such, which was supposed to show how equal he was to everyone else. Not that the city council held him responsible for any of his decisions or, indeed, bothered to try and rein his extravagances in.

Stewing in his thoughts, Sam was shown into Vetinari's house, known in the street as the Patrician's Palace; it served as the man's headquarters for business as well as his residence. It was worthy of the name. Vimes goggled at the high, vaulted ceilings, the gracious tiling, the rich carpets laid here and there. He was lead down a long, dark corridor, which put him in mind of a dungeon despite the tasteful decorations. Perhaps it was his frame of mind.

He was directed to wait and, gingerly, he sat down on one of the dignified brocade chairs outside Vetinari's office. At first he perched on the edge, afraid to lean back, but he soon found that this was extremely uncomfortable; sitting properly on the chair was almost as uncomfortable. Pretty they might be, but practical they weren't.

That was probably Vetinari's game. Keep 'em waiting outside on awful chairs in order to get the upper hand over them even before the meeting starts. But make 'em good-looking awful chairs so they didn't feel they could complain – and then, even if they did, you could say something like "those were my grandmother's and it was her dying wish that I use them". And what could you say against an old granny's dying wish? An old family and a lot of money could cover a multitude of sins, except on Vimes' scorecard.

It was exactly sixteen minutes later – Vimes kept count – when he was finally summoned inside by a drab-looking young man with tidy brown hair and tiny round glasses.

He nearly said 'Huh?' again, because standing in the spacious office were a couple of people he knew. There was a tall, muscular young man and a pretty woman with ash-blonde hair and a watchful look. Now, there were some familiar faces. What were they doing here? Surely not on Vetinari's side. He trusted them to be on his, and he didn't trust easily. But Vimes didn't speak, just waited for Vetinari to make the first move.

"Ah, Commander. Glad to see you've come to join us."

There he was. The Patrician. Vimes had only seen him in person on a few occasions but everyone knew that face: it was a face impossible to forget. The large aquiline nose, the eyebrows shaped perfectly for raising speculatively, the keen, piercing eyes. Vimes refused to quail, though. He wasn't going to make this easy. Instead, he replied, "Not Commander anymore. I've been dismissed."

"So I've heard. In fact, that is why I have called you here."

Vimes waited patiently. This was a great trial, since his first impulse was to demand 'how the hell do you know that'? People on the streets said Vetinari had spies everywhere, but people on the streets would say anything. Surely that wasn't true? Vimes was beginning to wonder.

"You may, perhaps, be wondering why your colleagues are here."

"Probably the same reason I am. I suppose they were sacked too?"

"We resigned, sir!" Carrot snapped off a salute.

"What? Why?"

"Did not feel I would be able to obey the orders I was likely to be given, sir. Justice is not being done."

"You shouldn't have done that. Work's scarce in the city these days."

"Yes, well," Carrot said, shifting uncomfortably. "We have something we need to tell you. Sort of related to that. You see..."

"We've both got superpowers," Angua said, sighing. "I know. It's a bit too much like a comic book. I can turn into a wolf; Carrot's basically got the standard set. You know. Super strength, flying, invulnerability. Laser eyes, for all I know – "

"Oh, no, certainly not," said Carrot earnestly. "Nothing like that. Just what Angua said. We've been – in the absence of official justice we've been doing a bit of unofficial work." He lifted his chin and appeared to square his shoulders, although Carrot's shoulders were so square in any case it was hard to tell the difference.

"Vigilantes," said Vimes woodenly.

"Superheroes," said Carrot. "I'm Captain Justice and she's Lady Lupine."

Vimes looked at Angua. She mouthed, "He picked them."

"This," he said, "is a hell of a practical joke to play on your former commanding officer."  
"It's not a joke, sir! We would never! With great power comes great responsibility!" Carrot looked hurt.

"I know it's all really quite ridiculous," said Angua. "Sometimes I still can't believe it myself. And I'll prove it to you – hang on." She looked at Vetinari. "If you'd all look away, I'd appreciate it. The transformation can be – "

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Vetinari interrupted, calmly. "Commander Vimes is well acquainted with the idea of preternatural powers."

For a second, Vimes' heart stuttered. Vetinari couldn't possibly know; nobody knew. But Vetinari's piercing look said he did know, and wouldn't hesitate to reveal the secret if necessary. The look added, _though it would be much neater if this fact stayed between us_.

"Er, yes," said Vimes. "Sounds weird, sure, but we've had a few criminals with more than the average abilities. I've often wondered about that."

"Yes," Carrot said solemnly. "That's the sort of people we fight."

Okay. Vimes was still not sure where he stood right now.

"What are you proposing?" he asked.

"I simply feel the streets need to be a little safer, Commander." Vetinari held up his hand. "And before you say anything, it will be Commander again soon should you accept my offer."

"Are you suggesting that I – "

"I'm not suggesting anything. I simply wish to hire you and your colleagues here as guards. What, and who, you guard is your own decision."

"That's ridiculous. You can't hire a free-floating guard. That's not even how guarding works! The whole point of a guard is that you have something valuable and you get someone to guard it. You can't just say 'you pick'."

"A man with a lot of money can be indulged a number of whims. This one is harmless, as such things go. Let us simply say that I wish to see the city safer, and that I will rely on your judgment as to who and what needs protecting."

Vimes thought about it. This was madness, but he had better play along. He had to do something to fill his time or else he'd go back to the drinking, he knew it. And he really, really didn't want to go back to drinking. "No killing," he said.

"Of course."

"And anyone I apprehend in these guarding duties – I drop them off at the police station."

"Certainly not. You are to drop them off here."

"No. You're not official, and I need official. I need lines. I need to know they'll be treated fairly – "

"As you are no doubt perfectly certain they will be, at our fair city's police stations." A certain sharpness of tone made Vimes hesitate.

"Good point," he admitted grudgingly, "But you can't just set yourself up as Lord High Protector of the City unless the people agree. I'll leave anyone I catch at the police station. It's up to you what happens after that."

"An acceptable compromise. I shall endeavor to ensure they are treated well; I will see that justice is done. Any other questions?"  
"No."

"Do not let me detain you, then." Vetinari picked up a pen and began writing deliberately on a piece of paperwork. Vimes realized he'd been dismissed, and exited, followed by Carrot and Angua.

Once they were well out of Vetinari's range, Vimes turned on Carrot. "Are you sure you can fly?" he demanded.

"Er, fairly certain sir," said Carrot. "Would you like to see?"

"Yes, I – aarrrgh!" Carrot had grabbed Vimes deftly around the waist and soared up into the air. They hovered there for a moment, looking down over the city. Vimes flailed for a bit, but then he saw what Ankh-Morpork looked like from high up.

It was a beautiful mess; up here there were no stray bits of trash or dog droppings lying around, but there were tangles of cars and lines of bright lights, shining like stars. The Ankh wound its sluggish way through it all; from so high up you couldn't even see the slime. He caught his breath.

"Can we go back to the ground now?" he asked.

"Certainly, sir. If you're sure you don't want further demonstration. A few loops, for example – "

"No!"

"That's not what I meant!" Vimes said, when they got back to the ground. "I wanted to see you do it!" He staggered away from Carrot, very glad to feel the cement beneath his feet now that he wasn't distracted by the sight of Ankh-Morpork. Urgh, he felt a bit sick to his stomach.  
"Well, sir, do you have any doubts now?"

"No. No, that was definitely not an illusion." Vimes rubbed his eyes. "I've got to get back home and get some sleep."

"Would you like me to – " Carrot began, hopefully.

"No!" said Vimes. "I can get a bus!"  
"It's rather late for them. It'd be no trouble, sir. I can have you there in a jiffy."

"But –" Vimes began, a moment too late. Carrot grabbed him again and lifted off into the air.

It was, indeed, a very fast ride. Vimes threw up when he got back on the ground, but not until Carrot had gone. Then he went inside and went to sleep.

He woke up and wondered where he was, as he always did on mornings in which he didn't blink groggily awake with a pile of paperwork plastered to his cheek, backside numb from the uncomfortable chairs at the station. His location – _ah, yes, the apartment_ – hit him just a moment before the events of last night did.

Oh, _gods_. He groaned and sat up, trying to force his mind back into working order. He still felt ill and strangely empty, and he remembered that he'd lost his lunch – or rather supper – after being flown home. Flown home. Ha. This was thoroughly insane.

He glared at the mark on his arm. Although he was very careful to keep it covered up during the day, it wasn't actually all that noticeable; it was just a small white circle with a tail and an even smaller circle inside it. Looked very innocuous, but then, that was part of what made it so dangerous.

Vimes dressed. It was odd, wearing civilian clothing. He spent most of his time in his uniform; on his rare off-duty occasions he generally just knocked around his apartment in battered old jeans and t-shirts, because if he was off-duty, he was clearly either too sick or too tired to be anywhere else. Vimes hadn't had a vacation in years; he supposed he ought to regard this as one.

Ah, but no...it wasn't, was it. He'd been hired. For what, he wasn't sure exactly. For running around the city like a madman catching crooks? True, that was his normal daily routine, but it was a bit different when you didn't have a badge.

He was just fixing himself some breakfast – burnt sausage, burnt egg, burnt toast – when there was another knock at the door. He sighed heavily, and answered it with fork in hand.

It was Carrot and Angua and –

"What the hell is Detritus doing here?"

"He wants to join, sir," said Carrot.

"Join what?"

"The, the, _you know_, sir." Carrot wiggled his eyebrows in what he probably meant to be a knowing way. Vimes remained stonefaced, and Carrot relented. "The _Guard_," he whispered.

"Ah. Don't tell me – he has super-strength, I knew that already." Detritus was a huge man, even bigger than Carrot, and an excellent man to have your back in a fight if not a spelling bee. Still, he was a reliable officer. Correction: not an officer anymore, if Vimes knew his men.

"No, sir, don't be silly."

"That's silly, is it?"

"Show him, Detritus," Angua directed.

Detritus nodded and closed his eyes. After a moment, he turned into what appeared to be stone. Vimes reached out and poked him, very gently. Yes, that definitely felt like stone. Hmm.

"Ah," he said. And then, "Indeed. My breakfast is getting cold."

"May we come in, sir? We must confer on the subject of recent events." Carrot had the kind of face you couldn't turn down. Everything he said seemed so reasonable. Vimes sighed again; it felt like he was doing that a lot lately. "Okay," he agreed. "So long as you can fit Detritus in."

"Don't worry about dat, sir. I'm flexible." Detritus' skin turned back to its normal colour.

Vimes wandered back over to his kitchen table and sat down. "Any of you hungry?"  
"Not...really, sir," said Carrot, in his tactful voice. What was there to be tactful about? True, Vimes did burn everything and perhaps that wasn't to everyone's tastes. Just as well, really, he didn't feel like cooking anymore.

Crunching down on an egg, he said, "Okay, go on, what's all this?"

"As I said, Detritus wants to join the Guard." Vimes winced. He'd definitely a capital on that last word. Rarely a good sign. Carrot was so sincere about things and he tended to drag you along into that sincerity. Vimes didn't want to be sincere about this venture, even though he apparently had no way of escaping it.

"Yes. He quit?"

"Yes, at the same time we did."

"Thought as much. What about the others?"

"Cheery's staying on. She says she wants to fight from within."

"What? How?"

"She's going to fudge evidence," Angua explained. Carrot looked disapproving.

"I wouldn't put it like that," he said.

"All right, she's going to _destroy_ evidence."

"Evidence of what?" Vimes asked. "Do I want to know?"

"Us." Angua shrugged. "Fingerprints, that sort of thing. She's been doing it for Carrot and me for ages."

"What!"

"I know, sir, but if we'd told you someone else might have found out. You are not the only officer in the force, sir. Walls have ears."

Vimes thought about this. It was fairly reasonable, although he was still annoyed. To work out his frustration, he poked at his toast. A bit of it broke off and shattered against the table. Ahh, perfect.

"Okay," he said. "I haven't quite figured out where I am on this yet. We're here to protect the citizens of Ankh-Morpork?"

"Yes, sir."

"How do we know who to protect?"

Angua bit her lip. "Well...if someone's being attacked. Or there's unlicensed thievery going on. That sort of thing. Same sort of thing we do – did – as police officers."

"Hmmm. Breaking the law, is that it?"

"Yes, sir. And believe me, Carrot knows the law. Back to front."

"True enough." Vimes shook his head. "I just don't like being unofficial. It's not right."

"I know, sir," Carrot said. "But what else can we do?"

There was a long silence, then Detritus said, "So we all gonna keep doin' what we planned on doin'?"

"Looks that way," said Vimes, shrugging. "Vetinari's fine with you being on board, Detritus?"

"Yep. He said I had many fine qualities what the Guard could use." Detritus stuck out his chin proudly and stood a little straighter, causing his head to scrape the ceiling.  
Yes, Detritus had many useful abilities, such as the ability to turn a knife and possibly a bullet when he was in rock form. Not to mention that there were few people whom Detritus could not lift with ease.

"Okay," he said again. "So what do we do?"

"We'll teach you, sir, don't worry!" Carrot beamed.

That was the beginning.

These things never get any neater.

* * *

About a year ago I was out on a walk and started thinking about superheroes and Discworld and thought, "If Rincewind was a superhero, his power would definitely be superspeed."  
And then I got to thinking about everyone else.  
And then I went home and made a tumblr post about it and several people reblogged it with their own ideas and it was a small Thing for a while. A few people wrote things and drew things, and I was very happy. Then, as these things do, it went away. But it remained in my heart and I always wanted to do something with it.  
So, here is the beginning of what will hopefully be a series of some sort. I'm not quite sure whether this is going to be a multi-chapter fic or just a patchwork quilt of stories about the various characters involved (as many canon characters as I can possibly write about, that is - not just Watchmen). Probably the latter.

Many people contributed ideas, and all that sort of mixed up in my head and became this. So I'd like to thank agentsandyquinn, theturtlemoves (again!), theswordintheparsnip, unsuborsuper, reverse-mermaid, wayward-whovian(who originally suggested Colossus-like powers for Detritus, which ended up here as his being able to turn into stone), and adorababble, for having been involved in the original madness.


End file.
